


We Can Do It With Our Eyes Closed

by eternalsojourn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean Winchester, First Time, M/M, POV Multiple, guilty!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 12:16:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20275786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalsojourn/pseuds/eternalsojourn
Summary: After years and years of stepping back from that one boundary in their relationship, they finally break the salt line. Both of them need to work through the follow-up and Dean's inevitable guilt.This is basically porn and feelings, with some passing hunting activity. It was inspired by cherryvanilla sharing all kinds of content with me, but kicks off with this mildly NSFW gif:Neck kissing





	We Can Do It With Our Eyes Closed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cherryvanilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryvanilla/gifts).

Sam slides his his hand a little further up Dean’s thigh.

“Sammy,” Dean’s voice is rough, not nearly as stern as he intends. He turns his head even further away and his mouth twists, words trapped behind closed lips. He doesn’t do anything about Sam’s hand, which really needs to go away but feels warm and heavy.

The bench creaks as Sam leans in close enough to ghost a breath across Dean’s jaw, not yet touching lips to skin. Dean’s eyes close and he swallows.

Dean has no idea why this time is any different. They’ve been here a thousand times, more even. Usually they hover around in heated uncertainty for a few moments, and then part. Then Dean goes off and drinks enough to burn his throat, part penance for his perversion, part solace when enough booze begins to fuzz out the sharp edges of his shame. 

And this time should be the same. They’re in town for a standard vengeful spirit, and there’s work to do but not until tomorrow. Sam could probably find more research to do because that’s what he’s like, but he isn’t. He’s outside with Dean in the late afternoon breeze, bench overlooking the woods that have so terrified the locals but right now could pass for harmless. And Dean can’t even remember why he came out here, or why Sam followed, or how they got to this point, with Sam encroaching on Dean’s space and Dean allowing it.

“Sam,” he says again, stronger than before but not a rebuke. “This is…” he trails off.

Sam’s hand presses down in a light grip and Dean suppresses a groan. He needs to stop this now. He knows Sam will push; Dean is always the first to hit the brakes. It’s his job, after all, to steer them in the right direction, to look after his little brother. To never, ever, let those fantasies that rise in the dark of night, in the privacy of his own bed, bleed into daylight.

“You want this too, I know you do,” Sam says. He sounds so reasonable. Like it’s a simple equation when it’s not. Sam always seems to understand complexity better than Dean, and Dean likes to keep things simple. But this. This isn’t simple. He can’t believe Sam thinks it is. But then… maybe he doesn’t. Maybe Sam has worked through the equations and come out to something else at the end.

“It’s not that,” Dean says. But he’s lost the thread, can’t remember his point. Because lips are brushing his jaw and for all Sam is his little brother, his Sammy, he’s an unstoppable force when he wants to be, and he feels solid and strong beside Dean right now. “It’s not…”

“Not what?” Sam says, like he’s actually interested in the answer, despite the fact that he’s pressing kisses into Dean’s skin now, nose grazing his cheek.

Dean’s thoughts scatter, fluttering off in the breeze while Sam’s presence anchors him in place. He turns his head towards Sam, who stays close, eyes so knowing and intense with a desire Dean’s seen there before. Dean shakes his head, arguments amassed but buried too deep now, covered over with the overwhelming desire to continue. Sam’s lips are there, so easy and so close. They’re nestled between Dean’s own before Dean can form another thought: warm, soft, barest hint of stubble touching Dean’s bottom lip. And for a moment Dean stays there, awash with the gratification of having this one thing, if this is all they’ll do before guilt takes them once more.

But then Sam slides his hand up further, not just up but in, no denying where he’s headed. And he’s opened his lips, tongue touching Dean’s lips, and this can’t be passed off as anything other than what it is any more. So if Dean’s going to have this, he’s going to do it right because this is  _ Sam _ . 

So Dean opens to him, meets him halfway, tongues circling and caressing, pressing and retreating. Sam puffs out a breath and his hand moves up, skimming jeans and belt, and catching on Dean’s shirt. His fingertips brush over the bare skin at Dean’s stomach, then over the material and up, coming to rest at Dean’s neck, thumb brushing over his throat. Dean’s struck then by how big Sam’s hands are, how powerful. With Sam’s tongue in his mouth and hand on his neck, it feels goddamned perfect, and Dean is overcome with a desire to be pressed down by all that weight, to have Sam restrain him and take out every frustration, every bit of anger he might have so Dean can bear the brunt of his brother. If he could just take it then Sam could settle, could direct all that focus instead of this diffuse dissatisfaction he exudes. And if Dean could just be pressed, the way he knows Sam can with all that strength, then the choice would be made and Dean wouldn’t have to make it.

Dean opens his eyes and beyond Sam is a tree, the leaves, the daylight. He panics.

“Sam,” he says desperately. “Sam.”

Sam pulls back, lips shiny and reddened, expression so lustful Dean can’t believe he gets to see it. Somewhere in his head, Dean thinks, “ _ push anyway, Sammy. Push me harder.” _ Because Sam keeps stopping when Dean speaks, and that allows space for Dean to think, and in a second Dean’s going to have to shut it down for both their sakes. “ _ Come on, push.”  _ Dean licks his lips, staring at Sam’s mouth. Sam searches his face and the lust softens, a glimmer of understanding added to it. 

Sam nods slightly. “Close your eyes,” he says. His quiet certainty is familiar, a volley of authority from Dean to Sam they practice with ease on their hunts. Dean nods and closes his eyes.

He feels that hand cover his neck more fully, and Dean wonders if there’s anyone else on earth he’d let do that. Sam’s thumb presses on Dean’s jaw, moving his head up and to the side to expose his throat, and yes, this is what he needed. Darkness, pressure, Sam’s size and stubbornness. He swallows, then pulls in a steadying breath and stretches that little bit more.

Sam mouths at his Adam’s apple, tongue tracing the bump. He noses upwards, kissing everywhere he goes and Dean arches to make it easier for him. It’s exquisite agony because Dean knows,  _ knows _ , this is a terrible idea but that in itself makes it more… everything. Just more. Dean has never apologized for liking things that are bad for him, and this is the worst, but Sam has his tongue and hot breath in Dean’s ear, and Dean utters a completely unintentional moan.

Sam is all hands now, one around the back of his neck holding him secure, the other roaming freely, pushing his shirt up, bracketing his ribs, sliding over his stomach, playing around the waistband of his jeans, working at the button.

And that’s it. Nope, not here.

“Inside,” Dean grits out, standing abruptly and pushing a surprised and rumpled Sam backwards. As strong and big and forceful Sam has been, he looks young when startled and not so close, and that centres Dean. It makes him feel more in control of himself, more the older brother. “In,” he says sternly, and a twinkle of something in Sam’s eye flashes before he turns away. Dean follows behind, eyes tracking the full length of his brother before realizing he can touch, so he does, hand coming out to Sam’s hip, thumbing at Sam’s waist as they walk.

Once inside, they crash into each other clumsily, kissing, frantic and rushed. Dean fumbles with Sam’s shirt buttons while Sam holds Dean’s face in both hands. Dean gets impatient because there’s touching to be done, so he knocks Sam’s hands away and peels off his t-shirt, perfunctorily following it with stepping out of his jeans. Sam follows his lead, and stripped to their underwear, and Sam lowers himself to the bed while Dean follows him down _ . _

There’s a dusty sliver of light coming in from the curtains but it’s mostly dark, and that allows Dean to recall the thoughts he rarely allows himself, to remember how often he’s made a come-y mess of himself thinking of Sam. It allows him to explore the body beneath his, to feel in reality the details missing from the fantasy: the way the muscles bunch and release under his touch, the softness of the delicate flesh of Sam’s nipple under his tongue before it tightens. He can almost pretend this is an amped up version of the fantasy, tucked away behind curtains in the dimness of a motel that blends with every other place they’ve been.

“Dean,” Sam says, and it startles him for a second. In all his fantasies he realizes he’d failed to muster up Sam’s voice.

“What Sammy?” he says, carrying on with exploring Sam’s torso with his lips and tongue. Because that voice has driven a spike of guilt upwards, and Dean needs to not look up.

“I’ve thought about this a lot. About you.”

It’s far from a surprise, but the admission settles in a warm pool in Dean’s stomach as he pictures it. He should say something to reciprocate, he knows, but he can’t. If he opens his mouth he won’t be carefully non-specific the way Sam was; details will spill out.

“I want to suck you,” Sam says.

Dean feels an answering twitch of his dick filling up a little further. It’s a relatively tame way to start, but the reality of it lends it a potency the fantasy could never muster.

“I ain’t stopping you,” he says, although he’s still on top and now tonguing at a patch of skin just above Sam’s belly button, which isn’t exactly conducive to Sam’s proposal. 

Dean finds himself being flipped and jostled upwards, which is an unfamiliar sensation and he finds himself unexpectedly turned on by it. He wonders what it’d be like for Sam to lift him, to press him into a wall. His dick pulses fatter against restraining cotton.

While Sam jams a pillow against the headboard, Dean peels off his briefs and helps Sam get all the way naked while he’s at it. And he has a moment to consider that he’s naked and erect with his baby brother and they’re really doing this,  _ fuck _ . 

It’s too exposed and there’s a lead weight in his gut.  But one look at Sam, as loose and relaxed as he’s been in a long time takes the edge of it.  If he can be closer and have skin under his mouth, it’d be easier to get lost in what he’s doing. He almost wants to say as much, to find a way to go back to what they were doing earlier because he doesn’t actually want to stop at this point and he might have to if he gets to think too much. But then Sam bends down and places his mouth on the base of Dean’s shaft, curling his tongue around the girth and working up towards the crown, and Dean’s brain stutters offline again. His focus narrows southward, the nerves in his dick using up all available attention.

“Yeah, Sammy, fuck.” Dean surprises himself by speaking, but that is one thing from the fantasies: using Sam’s name just to drive home the dirty wrongness of what he’s doing. He doesn’t even know what he plans to say, but “Go on, Sam, put it in your mouth,” -- it appears his words aren’t asking for direction or permission, so whatever. Sam seems to like it as he hums in assent, which buzzes into Dean’s cock just a little, not enough. Just a shiver.

Sam takes Dean fully into his mouth and tilts to look up, lips in an O around Dean’s dick, which is just fucking perfection really. But then Sam goes and proves him wrong by sliding Dean’s dick right to the back of his mouth where he almost gags, then squirms his tongue around in a wet, hot mess and pulls up and off, leaving a sloppy string of spit. And no,  _ that’s _ perfection, Sam’s mouth a bit open and staring at Dean’s dick in what can only be described as adoration. That one’s going in the spank bank, no matter how this plays out after.

Dean reaches down to grip Sam’s hair and push him back onto his dick, but his traitorous fingers tuck a lock behind Sam’s ear and thread through his hair too gently to be the assertive direction Dean intended. The flood of affection that fills him doesn’t have words, thank God, because he couldn’t take the humiliation.

Misreading him entirely, Sam says, “It’s okay, you can grip.”

Which,  _ of course he fucking can _ , so he does. And with his other hand, Dean holds his erection to guide it back into Sam’s mouth, shiny and slick. Dean isn’t going to last long as horny as he is and he can’t slow down his body, which is pulsing and aching and longing, wanting to race towards the finish line. But he can’t really rush Sam, who has his own pace in mind despite the grip in his hair and Dean’s pulsing hips. Sam’s mouth is just a little too loose: warm and wet but not clamped, and Dean’s hovering between feeling impatient and grateful.

“That’s… God your mouth,” he says, though it doesn’t sum up what’s in his head. Sam moans a little and Dean can see he’s rubbing his own cock underneath him.

Dean tries to lean in and give him a hand, but Sam shakes his head without relinquishing the cock in his mouth. Then he pops off with an obscene slurp. “After,” he says, then dives back on. He wraps his fingers around Dean’s balls, a reassuring cup, before tugging slightly and then shifting grip to place his fingers below. He massages and presses and it feels incredible coupled with the velvety slipslide of Sam’s mouth. But then Sam’s hands even further back and Dean clenches.

“Whoa hey,” he says, because although he’s envisioned Sam fucking him, he’s only ever tried his own fingers and is suddenly feeling exposed because it’s not like he prepared for this today.

“I won’t go in,” Sam says. He stills while he waits for Dean’s answer. 

Unsure but willing to grant Sam pretty much anything, Dean answers by shifting his legs apart a little. Sam drools a bit of spit on his fingers and returns to what he was doing.

It’s weird, but not unpleasant, someone else’s fingers probing him there. And Sam wasn’t lying or sugarcoating; he’s really just rubbing around the outside. And when Sam’s mouth clamps tighter and he starts to bob and suck in earnest, it becomes tangled up with the pleasure and he’s pressing almost as much into the fingers as he is up into Sam’s mouth, starting to want them to probe inwards a bit more. Sam matches Dean’s pace and obligingly applying more pressure everywhere he’s touching, and Dean can only focus on the sensation, can only form enough of a thought to register that Sam,  _ Sammy _ is sucking him into oblivion.

“Fuck, Sam, yeah, like that, suck it,” Dean babbles as he thrusts, knocking his head into the headboard behind him as he crests and hovers, teetering, riding along the edge. And Sam sucks hard, finger pressing just inside his ass, and Dean tips, spurting once, twice, three times, and it keeps on coming, shooting into Sam’s mouth as his legs flex rhythmically open and Dean moans long and low as the spurts lose power, dribbling, bubbling, then stopping altogether.

“Damn, Dean,” Sam says when he pulls off, wiping his mouth. “Never seen anyone come like that,” he says with a cheeky grin as he moves up and kisses Dean deeply.

Dean is too loose and muzzy to really muster a retort, and Sam is maneuvering him down so they’re spooning, and Dean is confused because is Sam seriously just going to cuddle now?

But no, Sam, tucks his cock into the crack of Dean’s ass, and Dean comes online in a blink.

“Whoa, what,” because that thing isn’t going to fit in him without a hell of a lot of prep.

“I’m not… I just want to rub off here. Not inside. Can I do that?”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Yeah. Yeah sure.” It doesn’t sound the way it feels in his head. It sounds casual, like he’s granting it, but actually it feels like the best idea ever, more of that pressure on his ass, Sam wrapped around him.

And Sam does wrap around him, one long arm tucked around his torso, and that cock feeling really fat nestled into his crack, slipping a little in the spit Sam’s put there plus whatever lotion Sam’s grabbed from the nightstand. Sam rolls his hips and rubs, and he’s tall enough that when he grabs Dean’s face to turn him into a kiss, they manage it easily, tongues tangling. Sam is intense and Dean is sloppy but it’s wonderful, Dean could kiss him forever. And somewhere in Dean’s head is still that voice that says this is awful, but it’s like when he’s drunk and he knows that the hangover is hours away yet. So he kisses, and feels Sam’s cock, draggy and hard and rubbing pleasantly against sensitive nerve endings.

It’s a bit before Sam is rutting hard, grabbing Dean’s hips to keep the pressure on, and biting at his earlobe, and Dean thinks it’s too soon. He doesn’t want it to be over. He doesn’t want Sam to ever get to the guilt hangover stage, but that thought rides alongside the pleasure of Sam losing control, gets overridden by Sam’s voice chanting his name.

When he comes, Sam grips him tight with his face buried in Dean’s nape, warm wetness spilling in bursts over Dean’s ass and lower back. It should feel wrong but the messiness of it pleases Dean immensely, like when he’s covered in grease and dirt from working on the Impala, setting things to rights.

Sam presses little kisses into Dean’s neck and across his shoulder. It’s easy to feel loose and glowy like this and Dean wallows in it for long minutes.

Finally he closes his eyes, sighs, and rolls out of bed. “Gonna take a shower,” he mutters, and heads for the bathroom. He should take care of Sam, try to assure him it’s okay or something. But it’s not, and he can’t. He doesn’t know yet how he’ll handle it after the dust has settled. But first he’s got come on his ass and spit and come all over his dick and upper thighs, and he might as well go and face his shame.

But when he steps into the bathroom, Sam’s bare chest presses into his back before he can make it to the shower.

“I’m joining you,” Sam says, like they’re choosing whether to eat breakfast together.

“Sam...” he says, barely even a warning.

“I know. You want to sulk and hate yourself. But I’m not going to let you.”

Dean turns and levels a dull glare at his brother. He wants to put his foot down but Sam’s standing there with that stupid stubborn frown and Dean knows he should make some attempt at looking after Sam after having sex with him. So he glares a little harder, sets his jaw, then nods once, tight.

Dean cranks the shower to as hot as he can stand it, and keeps Sam behind him, not wanting to see his face. Because Dean should be trying to figure out how to ease them beyond this. He should use this time to take a half step back, to show that naked doesn’t have to equal sex and then move further back from there. It’s not like they’ve never showered together, though admittedly not usually in a private bathroom like this. Sam can stay near him if that makes him feel better, and they can get clean and try to reassemble something normal afterwards.

He stays facing the shower head, letting the water near-burn his head and down his face, before coming out of the stream and pushing the water back off his hair and shaking it off his face. Sam has stayed back, not touching him. It’s only been less than a minute but he knows he’s hogging the water so Dean sets his jaw and mentally straightens up. He can do this. He turns the water down enough to take the sting off, then turns to face Sam, who’s standing there looking at him, concern furrowing his brow.

Dean reaches out to grasp Sam’s arms to turn them both around so Sam’s in the water instead, and he does manage it, but on the way their bodies bump into each other and Dean’s not sure if he steals the kiss or Sam does. It lasts a second, then parts, then they’re kissing again, tongues in a soft caress against each other. 

It lacks the urgency of earlier and Dean knows he’s just making things worse by continuing to let this go on but the reality is that Dean couldn’t stop kissing Sam right now if his life depended on it. Sam has tilted his head and runs his fingers up and down Dean’s arms, and Dean reaches out to the tiles to steady himself. Sam’s tongue is soft and undemanding, more luscious than the hungry licking and tongue-sucking of earlier. He gets a surge of both want and frustration with himself and he thumps the wall with the heel of his palm. Sam startles and Dean utters a growled grunt but because he actually can’t stop, he only deepens the kiss slightly and Sam yields to him.

Dean can feel that they’re both at partial chub when their lower halves shift against each other, but he doesn’t think either of them are likely to turn it around that fast. This is just kissing, which — Dean thinks distantly — is worse, so much worse. And better. He abruptly decides to stop thinking about  _ shouldn’t  _ and focuses instead on sensation and lets himself have it, making out languidly and letting himself be gradually softened by the water and the heat.

When they finally stop, it’s just a natural slowing down. He punctuates it with softly sucking kisses, one hugging Sam’s upper lip, then his lower, and one more because it’s so soft and pretty.

He glances up into Sam’s eyes, and the adoration there is too raw, so he looks away.

They wash in silence, and there’s no real discomfort or awkwardness when they get dressed. The evening sees Dean busying himself with cleaning his guns and Sam reading something Dean doesn’t bother to identify. Dean catches Sam looking at him a few times and Dean just sucks in a breath and looks away every time. 

The only moment of real tension is when they look at their beds and Dean’s not sure what Sam will ask for. But although Sam’s gaze lingers a bit longer on Dean’s, he looks at Dean and says, “G’night,” and crawls into his own.

Dean’s too tired to parse his brother’s body language, too tired to even pinpoint whether he’s relieved or disappointed. So he just climbs in and turns towards the wall.

He sleeps somehow. He has no idea how long before he finds himself awake again and he tunes his ears across the room to the other bed. Dean can tell, after so many years of sharing sleeping space, that Sam’s not asleep either. The desire to invite Sam over is near overpowering.

It’s a miserable, interminable night.

***

Sam doesn’t think he sleeps, but he wakes up with a start and the room is lit with daylight, albeit weak and grey.

Dean’s bed is empty, and a minute’s careful listening tells him Dean isn’t in the bathroom either. Sam closes his eyes. Last night in the shower he’d thought maybe they were okay. He gets flashes of the feel of Dean’s skin, of how confident and reassuring and just plain desiring Dean’s hands had felt. He allows himself a painfully indulgent moment of reliving that kiss, hot and wet and soft.

But then after that, the distance had left Sam increasingly uncertain and jittery. And now Dean’s empty bed feels like an accusation, and his absence feels like a blade in Sam’s stomach.

He drags himself to pull on jeans, a t-shirt, and a checked button-up, and brushes his teeth, very nearly pushing his nausea to its grim conclusion. But he doesn’t, and when he spits, he hears the door open. He spins much too fast with relief making his stomach flip again.

Dean glances at him, but quickly turns to put a coffee and a takeout bag on the desk.

“Eat,” he says, voice gruff. “We got interviews to do.”

“Dean…”

“Eat.”

Sam clenches his fists, wanting to talk it over, to hear Dean say something — anything — about what happened. But pushing Dean would likely shut him down entirely right now so he swallows it down and goes to pick up the coffee.

They do go out and conduct their interviews, and it goes as it always does. Sam tries to keep a lid on his memories and focuses instead on putting the story together of what led to the young lady whose posthumous rage is taking lives. It’s actually pretty easy to fall into the routine of it, and as long as he avoids looking at Dean during any kind of silence, he finds he can move forward through the day without any more worry.

But then while the local deputy is speaking, he catches Dean looking at him with a heavy, kind of far away look in that way Dean has of making it look like he’s seeing what’s in front of him but imagining something else. And Sam gets a surge of frustration because this is exactly the problem.

For years he’s tried really, really hard to put his feelings to rest. He’d gone off to Stanford and tried to put layers of a normal life in between him and Dean. But one glance when Dean came to pick him up and he was right back to how he was when he left. And then he tried to build some sort of routine with Dean, hoping he could shape a new normal for himself and accept a different kind of closeness.

But Dean has always been the problem. Because just when Sam thinks he can do it, he can get over himself already, Dean looks at him just a little too long with that heavy heat, or touches him with what feels like intent. And Sam’s feelings reach up and strangle him once more.

And here, the day after what should have been a beginning but feels like a colossal fuckup, Dean is  _ still  _ looking at him like that and what the fuck is Sam supposed to do? What was he ever supposed to do? Go on forever not knowing? Just wanting?

He glares, then tears his gaze back to the deputy, who has faltered for a second looking at them, but continues when Sam reassembles his features to look like he’s listening.

He catches Dean a few more times but they’re gathering useful information and generally keep busy until they get to the site of the girl’s murder at about dusk. It’s an outbuilding of a high school, next to the woods.

They set up their protections and do their incantations and end up facing off against one of the fastest and angriest fucking spirits they’ve ever encountered. After hearing what she endured at the hands of her killer even prior to the night in question, it’s not surprising. But still, it turns out to be much more challenging than expected. 

Which turns out to be a huge relief in a sense, because he and Dean collaborate as smoothly and easily as ever, fighting in practised tandem. In the end they manage to dig her remains up from the long-abandoned container garden, salt and burn them, and call the job done. Sam almost thinks maybe he can figure the rest of it out with Dean because it’s  _ them _ and they solve shit together.

Almost.

Because once they’re back at the motel, Dean goes into the bathroom, apparently washes up a bit in the sink, then comes out and puts his boots and jacket back on.

“‘m hittin’ the bar. Don’t wait up.”

And so Sam stays there with a lead weight in his gut for the rest of the evening.

Dean comes in a little after midnight in the dark, obviously trying to be quiet but bumping into things and swearing under his breath. At one point he sways close enough that Sam gets a whiff of alcohol and realizes he’s not going to be able to talk to his brother tonight.

***

Dean spends the evening at the bar going through a few newspapers to try to find another job to distract them. He finds one entirely too quickly: a rash of attacks one state over that they’re calling bear attacks, which they never fucking are. But then he’s left without anything to occupy him and while there’s a small group of passably hot chicks in the corner, he just can’t today.

There’s an unfortunate period between finishing with the newspapers and actually being drunk in which he can think. Which really just lets his frustration well up with nowhere to go.

He scrubs a hand down his face. He’d let the whole situation cross the line, the line he drew for them thinking no matter what else, no matter how abnormal they let their normal get, they had that boundary. And if he’s really honest (damn whisky anyway), he’d crossed the line himself a long time ago. He let himself look, and touch, and invent scenarios in his head that he thought about with relish as he jerked off, like a fucking pervert. And he  _ let _ Sam see him looking. He knew. He’d wanted Sam to see.

He drinks.

Later, he lays awake with, not the spins exactly, but feeling a bit unsteady on his bed. He hears Sam let out an irritated huff and he knows it’s a dick move going out tonight. He also knows Sam must’ve been dying to talk because Sam  _ always  _ wants to talk, the asshole, but he didn’t push it even once. So Dean can’t even be mad about that.

“C’mon Sam,” he says. “C’mon over.” Because somehow the guilt is all mixed up, and somehow it’ll be fixed if they can just… something. Fuck maybe. Dean doesn’t know, but he remembers the last time he felt good was tangled up in Sam.

“Go to sleep, Dean,” Sam says tightly.

“Know you want it,” Dean says because fuck Sam anyway. Just come on over.

He hears a thump of a fist hitting the bed.

“Go. To. Sleep.”

Suddenly drained of energy, Dean gives it up, letting the bed rock unsteadily below him. He gives up on sleep, too, but the rest is blackness.

***

Sam emerges from the bathroom, towelling himself off when he sees Dean sitting on the side of his bed, head in his hands. It’s early and Dean must be feeling like one giant exposed, throbbing nerve right now, but he’s up.

As Sam pulls on his jeans and sees Dean moving gingerly to the bathroom, Sam says, “You’re in no condition to drive. When you’re out, we can walk to the diner. I’m guessing you’ll want something greasy.”

Dean grunts at him and closes the door.

The irritation in Sam’s chest is tempered, just a little, by the fact that Sam knows Dean is tying himself up in knots. But that in itself is irritating, and he’s kind of glad Dean’s feeling so fragile. It’s his own damn fault.

And what the fuck was that last night, calling him over. Sam clenches his jaw and puts it on hold. When it comes to Dean, he has to have patience. It drives him crazy but there’s one thing he knows, and it’s that there are times he can push Dean and times when that’s just going to slam the walls up faster. So he leaves out some fresh clothes for Dean, packs up their shit and puts it in the car while Dean pulls himself together.

At breakfast, Dean pushes a newspaper over, open to an article on some attacks in another state.

Sam pauses over his bite of egg white omelette and levels a stare at Dean, who gives him a slightly abashed but hopeful look before looking back down at his plate. Sam huffs and carries on eating. At this point his silence doesn’t feel like a mercy he’s granting Dean, but a punishment. That might not make much sense, but Sam’s feeling petty and vindictive so fuck it. He just doesn’t feel like doing all the conversational heavy lifting.

He can tell Dean is going to be a little while before he’s got more of the alcohol out of his system, so after leaving Dean to pay and meeting up with him at the door, he says, “We need clothes. I’m going shopping. I’ll see you at the motel in two hours. We’ll leave then.”

Dean looks wretched: sad and sick. But he nods with just the briefest of glances into Sam’s eyes, and leaves.

He looks a lot more alive when Sam sees him next. He’s got a couple of coffees, one of which he pushes into Sam’s hands. He licks his lips, seemingly unconsciously, and something flutters in Sam’s chest, and damn everything really.

They drive with the radio on low, and when they hit the freeway, Sam speaks. “Dean,” he says. “We, uh.”

“Hey, no.”

“No, let me speak. We don’t have to… do anything.”

“We also don’t have to talk about it. Ain’t no rule says we have to. Look, it’s fine all right?”

It’s clearly not fine, if Dean is running away to get hammered just to avoid Sam. It’s so far from fine but Sam honestly can’t reduce his thoughts and feelings into bite size chunks right now so he just looks out the window.

Dean keeps looking at him, he can feel it. He sees it a few times and doesn’t even know what to do with it. When they stop for gas and a leak, he can feel Dean’s eyes on him as he walks inside for the key. And fuck if Sam can’t help himself from imagining pressing Dean up against the nearest available surface, feeling his solidness and licking into his mouth. It’s infuriating and frustrating and Sam gets so wound up by the time they get to where they’re going that he thinks he’s going out of his mind.

When they check into the new motel and get to their room, he feels Dean’s shoulder brushes up against his, rather unnecessarily, when he moves past.

“Goddamnit, Dean,” he spins around angrily as Dean closes the door behind them. “What the hell are you doing?”

Dean doesn’t pretend innocence, thank God. He licks his lips and furrows his eyebrows. He doesn’t answer.

Sam suddenly wants to shove Dean, shake him until words fall out. “What do you  _ want? _ ”

Dean opens his mouth to speak, looks to the side, and closes it again. Sam’s lats twitch, his fight muscles flexing. 

“Just tell me,” Sam says. “Did I… was it a mistake?”

“Sam…” Dean says with all of the weight he sometimes loads the word with when he has a million things to say and won’t get any of them out.

Sam deflates just a little. This is a well worn path, trying to draw some normal human communication from his brother. Badgering him doesn’t work. Sam closes his eyes on a deep breath. When he opens them again, Dean is looking at him with an unreadable expression that hints at the enormity of Dean underneath. “Just tell me.”

“It wasn’t a mistake,” Dean says, and how does he do that? Looking all put together when Sam feels like he’s coming apart. Dean looks away, then straight back at Sam. “I don’t know. I just don’t know, Sammy. Look, I’m starved. Let’s just go eat.”

“I don’t think I can ride forever on a maybe, Dean,” he says.

“Yeah. I know.”

“A burger,” Sam says after a few seconds, startling Dean enough that he actually stands straighter.

Something stills in Sam. They will talk about it. Sam has always been more stubborn than Dean, but this. If Dean wants one final stay of execution, this is it. The next time Sam will pin Dean down bodily if need be until he cracks. 

“I… yeah. Okay,” Dean says uncertainly. Sam is grimly satisfied with the small win of rattling Dean’s composure.

-

The restaurant’s some local chain, lights kept low and music a little too loud for regular conversation. But they talk, just about which local monsters might be likely culprits and planning out their next day. Sam feels the conversation they need to have like a cliff face beside them. But the food is good and Dean is talking, and the tightly wound spring inside Sam uncoils just a little.

Afterwards, on a full belly, Sam thinks about how Dean is getting looser and easier by the hour, more like himself. And Sam thinks about what they might do, or how he might broach the subject back at the motel but Dean levels a look at him as he gets up to pay that gives Sam pause.

So when Dean comes back and says, “Shoot some pool?” Sam thinks, yeah.

***

The ledge he places his beer on is sticky and the pool table is worn and faded. But the music is classic rock and there are just enough people in the place for comfort. Sam’s company, while strained, is still way better than the uncertainty that fills his absence. Dean allows himself to relax a little bit. He needs to anyway, if he’s going to beat Sam at pool.

He racks up, they flip for break and it’s all very comfortable and familiar. They go through several games, Dean winning them all but by a rapidly diminishing margin.

The day’s been getting easier as it wears on, and not just because it began with an utterly wretched hangover. And it isn’t that he’s come to any conclusion about Sam. It’s just that the hangover was like a fog over his ability to focus, and as it lifted, the clench in his gut just failed to reappear. Throughout the day, his mind had kept drifting back. If he’d been fixated before, that was nothing compared to now. He can't look at Sam without getting a wash of warmth. While he knows he needs to tamp this thing down while it’s new, he doesn't know how or when he'll do that. He hasn’t thought it through, but he knows one thing: he and Sammy on the road is exactly where he needs to be.

So while he lines up his next shot — four in the corner pocket — he allows his eyes to flick up to Sam again, standing on the opposite side of the table, looming tall and serious. He tries for a cocky smirk and gets a thoughtful look from Sam in return, but leaning more towards fond than troubled. Dean holds his gaze for a second, then returns to the shot, sinking it. He straightens up and adjusts his belt, feeling pretty satisfied with himself in the way a good run at pool can do.

Before he chooses his next shot, he picks up his beer and drains the last of it, wiggling the bottle like it’d reveal more if he could shake it loose.

“Go get us another one, would you Sam?”

Sam presses his lips together like he’s biting back an objection, and moves off towards the bar. Dean can’t help watching him go, although he’s in public, so he keeps it to a sideways glance as he leans against the edge of the table to wait. He picks up the chalk and dusts it across his cue, though it doesn’t really need it, he just wants something to do. It doesn’t stop his mind supplying him with a sense memory of Sam leaning onto him, heavy and insistent. A low-grade buzz jitters under his skin, and has been for some time now, like too much coffee. He knows it’s because this thing with Sam is sitting just below the surface, but he couldn’t say whether it’s nerves or excitement or something else that makes him feel like a pack of strike-anywhere matches.

Sam comes back but when Dean reaches for his drink, Sam holds onto it, leaving them both hovering like idiots with a hand on a drink between them. Dean frowns.

“Before you’re too far gone,” Sam says and Dean thinks,  _ oh here it is _ . “Or before both of our judgement goes out the window. We should probably figure out what’s coming after this, huh? I mean, I’d like to know.” He lets go of the drink then but stands just a little too close for Dean to turn away without it being a deliberate evasion. Damn Sam, getting this particular move down to a science over the years.

“Couldn’t even give it a day,” Dean replies, because although he knew they’d face this question soon, it’s his job to push back.

Sam stares, unimpressed. “Like, I get it. We could dance around, get drunk enough to blame that, and I could face another one of your guilty freakouts. But I’m gonna lay this out now. I don’t think I can take that. I  _ want  _ this — ”

“Jesus, Sam, keep it down,” Dean says, darting a look behind his brother to the rest of the bar.

“No one’s listening,” Sam says, but he lowers his voice anyway. “I want  _ you _ . But not if it’s going to keep doing that to you, making you regret. You’ll start resenting me. And that would… I couldn’t… I just couldn’t.” It’s less articulate than Sam usually is, but Dean gets it completely. He doesn’t even want to contemplate the possibility of driving a wedge between them.

Dean sighs and looks again at the room. Sam’s right, no one’s listening, and no one’s even really near. The closest occupied table is out of earshot at this volume.

“I’m not gonna resent you. But the other thing, the not freaking out.” Dean doesn’t want to say it but can’t lie about it, not about something this important. “I can’t promise that.”

Sam’s expression falters, betraying for just a moment a flicker of pain that Dean would have done anything to avoid.

“Hey,” Dean says, coming out more scolding than conciliatory. “I can’t because I can’t undo a lifetime of promising to protect you.”

“But how does that change —”

“Let me finish,” and Dean’s definitely sounding angry now, even though anger isn’t really what he’s feeling. Just jittery and wound tight and full in his chest. “But I also can’t…”

Sam waits, face morphing through several emotions Dean couldn’t name if he tried. “Can’t what?” he says.

“I can’t stop thinking about it.” And this right here is the shit he’s not supposed to tell Sam. But it’s acute and real and with anything else, Sam would be the one he’d share it with. He has to, he just has to get this out. “It’s right there in my head every time I get a second to think. I know how you kiss, Sam. That ain’t something a big brother oughtta know. And I can’t go back to a time when I didn’t know that. And anyway I… I don’t think I’d want to.” As he says it he feels out true it is. No matter what, there’s no undoing what they’ve done, and Dean can’t bring himself to regret that. And that’s what he’s been trying to avoid admitting.

Sam’s always worn his emotions on his face, and this moment displays a whole host of them. It's an agonizingly long time before Sam speaks again. 

“So what then?” he says, not as much a question as a challenge.

Something settles in Dean's chest. As much as Sam pushes, he's actually  _ asking  _ Dean, no matter how much he frames it otherwise. It's what they do, turn to each other for an anchor point in a world that gets tossed by strange storms. And he's always prided himself on being Sam's steady point when the world — when their own father — couldn't provide any other stability.

“We're going to finish this game,” he says, finding confidence in laying out a plan. “And finish our drinks. And then we're gonna go.” He captures Sam's gaze, and though they’re not touching at the moment, they're connected as though they have every point of physical contact. “And then we’re gonna try again.”

Any uncertainty in Sam’s expression disappears in an instant, and he suddenly looks younger, shades of how he used to look at Dean when they were teens and Dean would teach Sam how to shoot or fight, and Sam couldn’t hide his admiration and willingness to follow. That’s what Dean sees now, but overlaid with heat. It’s the sort of look that got Dean into trouble to begin with: one that takes all the love he has for his brother and threads it through with base desire.

It occurs to Dean now that although it appeared that Sam had made his decision already, he was waiting for Dean not just to agree, but to make Sam’s choice okay. Because in retrospect one of the things he’s seen on Sam’s face is fear, the same fear Dean has: that one day the other one of them would emerge from the fog and realize their brother is a perverted freak. But Sam wants this, they  _ both  _ want this, and Sam and has been braver than Dean in admitting it.

Dean grips the pool cue in his left hand a little tighter, and with his right reaches out to drift his fingers lightly down the front of Sam’s shirt. The flannel is warm and he can feel the solid hardness of Sam’s stomach beneath.

“Come on,” Dean says, mustering effort to shake off the heaviness of the moment.

Sam blinks, but is slower to shed it than Dean, and he nods slowly. “Oh—.” He clears his throat and swallows. “Okay,” he says, more clearly. He licks his lips and backs off, never taking his eyes off Dean. It feels good, having his brother’s focus like this.

As Dean lines up his shot, he notes that the buzzing under his skin is still there, but with his decision made, he just feels alive with anticipation. When he catches a glimpse of Sam in his periphery, he lets go of trying to ignore or suppress what it does to him and instead savours the way it makes his chest and groin go tight and warm. 

The pool table gradually clears and Dean’s excitement ratchets up as he and Sam move around the table in a delicate dance around each other, barely brushing past. He feels like a horny kid again, waiting for an empty house so he can bring in whoever and make out, dirty hot and desperate. It feels new, despite their having tasted each other already, because tonight he won’t hold back.

He’s sporting a semi by the time he lines up the 8 ball, and by the way Sam’s adjusting, he’s in a similar state. In the middle of taking the shot he makes the mistake of flicking his eyes in Sam’s direction, and the ball ricochets off the rail and rolls uselessly across the table.

“Looks like you win,” Dean says, quietly amazed he got this far at all, that either of them have held out. 

Sam smiles wryly, a flicker of acknowledgement, before tracking his gaze down at Dean’s chest and coming back up to rest on his mouth. Dean takes in a deep breath, wets his bottom lip, and says, “You wanna go?”

Sam’s voice is only an exhaled breath shaped around the words “Hell yes,” and they’re out the door as quickly as they can manage.

***

The walk back to the motel is interminable hell and Sam’s heart is racing. They make it as far as a block away from the motel before Dean drifts close enough to bump them together and skates his fingers lightly across Sam’s ass. Sam swears and a second later finds himself jammed against the nearest wall with Dean’s mouth on his, breath hot and fingers clawing at his waist.

“Shit,” Dean says against Sam’s lips, short and harsh. “Shit fuck. We gotta…” his fingers scrabble a bit more over Sam’s t-shirt before jerking away. “Gotta go,” Dean finishes, but leans in to take another kiss, rough and biting, and he tugs at Sam’s lower lip with his teeth.

“Dean…” Sam says because he can’t form any other words. He can’t  _ think  _ any other words. It’s a relief when Dean backs off and yanks Sam by the sleeve because Sam really could’ve just sunk to his knees right there in the street and taken whatever Dean could serve up for him.

During the rest of the hurried walk Sam is driving himself crazy with thinking ahead to what’s coming, so to dial himself down a bit he thinks instead of his earlier conversation with Dean at the bar. Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this. As much as he’d tried not to have any expectations at all, he realizes he’d prepared himself for Dean to shut the whole thing down. Now that Dean appears to have put away his reservations, he’s dizzy with how hard Dean hits the gas pedal.

He gets even dizzier when they arrive and get through the door, as Dean kicks the door shut behind him and grabs Sam’s shirt two-handed to drag him into a kiss. It’s almost surprising: Sam’s seen Dean with girls and they always seemed to just come together casually. He used to imagine being under Dean’s hands but his imagination replicated that steady low-grade heat and focused on the things they’d do. He isn’t prepared for this Dean, whose intense desire is nearly overwhelming.

Sam’s every bit as hungry as Dean appears to be and for a while it’s just them licking and nipping at each other, chests occasionally clashing and reminding them to try to tear off some clothes. The most they manage is Sam’s outer shirt because that’s the only thing that can come off without breaking apart. Even then they’re arching forward seeking contact with lips and tongues.

Sam is frantic, hands restlessly touching every part of Dean — waist, ass, back, neck, face, chest — as though this’ll be taken from him at any moment and he’s got to take while he can. This is the Dean from the shower, for all the tone is completely different. This is Dean giving into it, and Sam kind of wants to hit pause and live in this moment forever.

Then Dean flicks the button on Sam’s jeans and tugs the flap apart with a dexterity Sam doesn’t think he’d be able to muster at this moment, and plunges his hand in to palm over Sam’s cotton-clad erection. Sam groans into Dean’s mouth and presses into Dean’s hand mindlessly. He’s never felt this animalistic, like he could rut against whatever bit of Dean is available, just from a stripped down need to fuck. He loses coordination in his kiss and gives it up in favour of feeling Dean’s jaw and neck beneath his tongue, rapid pulse there gratifying and resulting in a feedback loop of  _ fast, need, pounding _ . 

“Sam. Sammy,” Dean says, sounding like it’s difficult, like when he’s been injured and mustering up coherence is a monumental effort. Sam answers with a sound that’s somewhere between a grunt and a hum.

“I need. Gotta get you naked,” Dean says. His hand is still pressed against Sam’s dick, rubbing lightly and feeling the outline of it through the cloth. Sam doesn’t respond, just finds a spot on Dean’s neck to kiss and lick and suck a mark into. “Sam,” Dean groans, and removes his hand. “Need you naked,” he says again. The words are so alien coming from Dean, directed at Sam, and it rakes something harsh and satisfying inside him. He wants Dean to keep saying stuff like that.

“Okay,” Sam says, reluctantly pulling his lower half back an inch from Dean’s body but unable to move further away than muttering his words directly into Dean’s skin. “I want to hear what you want to do to me,” he says, and toes off his shoes and shoves his jeans down and kicks them out of the way. He pulls his shirt over his head and when he can see Dean again, he’s glad he pulled back to see it. Because Dean isn’t hiding his appreciation at  _ all _ .

“I…” Dean starts, and it’s the rarest of things Sam ever sees, Dean tripped up. But he composes himself quickly, because of course he does. It’s why Sam would follow him anywhere, because Dean is competence and composure personified. “Everything,” he says, voice rough and warm like a good shot of whisky. “I’ve thought about everything. I want you to hold me down and take what you want. Hard.”

It’s such a shock that Sam pauses in his efforts to divest Dean of his jeans. He looks up to Dean’s face, and Dean knows exactly the effect he has, the fucker, smirking and smug but apparently utterly sincere.

“But not tonight,” Dean continues, tongue wetting his lower lip in a familiar gesture that could be either deliberate or subconscious, Sam’s not sure. “Tonight I want to make you feel good,” and the cockiness is gone, just plain earnestness left.

“That’s not exactly going to be a challenge,” Sam replies, and dips in to kiss Dean again while he finishes opening Dean’s zipper. Dean catches his wrist before he can plunge his hand inside.

“I’m serious, Sammy,” Dean says, almost scolding.

“Yeah, I know,” Sam says.

“No, I mean it. I’m kinda keyed up here. Just, hands off for a bit, all right?”

Sam thinks that’s probably not at all what’ll make him feel good, but he doesn’t get the chance to respond. Dean is pushing him back onto the motel bed, and once Sam is seated at its edge, Dean kicks off his shoes and strips himself before crowding over and suddenly Sam feels not just younger but littler in a way he hasn’t physically been since he was fifteen. His big brother is making him tilt his head up and is licking over his lips and covering Sam’s mouth with warmth and wetness and soft sucking. Sam feels  _ seduced _ , like one of Dean’s girls, but more because this is acutely real and hot and Dean’s hands feel like they  _ know _ Sam and desire him wholly. Sam nearly lets go an embarrassing whimper but he doesn’t, just places a hand behind him for support because he’s actually dizzy now.

Dean reads him perfectly and gives him a soft, fond smile that Sam thinks he could live on from here on out. He settles one knee beside Sam’s leg and urges him back enough that Dean can straddle his lap. With two strong and gentle hands on either side of his face, Sam has kisses just taken from him, which is novel. And Dean pushes one of Sam’s shoulders until Sam gets the hint and lays back, Dean hovering over him for a drawn-out moment, the two of them just breathing the same air.

Dean closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly, but with none of the tension or guilt he’s shown previously. “Always knew you’d be the death of me Sammy,” he says as he opens his eyes and looks at Sam. “Worst part is I don’t even mind.”

Sam nods his agreement, and is still trying to find the words to respond when Dean descends, licking in and grinding down and between their tongues sliding against each other and their hard cocks aligning and pressing, Sam’s thoughts are gone like so much smoke.

“Why the fuck are we still wearing these?” Dean says as he slides his hand between them, impeded by dual layers of cotton.

“Think that was your fault,” Sam says because he actually can’t remember how they ended up like this but he has a duty to lob it back.

Dean laughs. “Yeah, ‘cause between the two of us,  _ I’m _ more modest.”

Sam can’t help but laugh at that. But by that time Dean’s eased off to remove the garment in question, and Sam lifts to shuck his as well. And then Dean’s thrown his leg back over Sam and they’re pressing together unimpeded, and it’s strange and wonderful having the hot, hard length of his brother’s erection grinding against his own.

Sam thinks if they just did this, he’d come and that’d be enough, just rubbing and erupting over Dean’s skin. He can feel when Dean’s crown catches on his own and it’s perfect in its uneven friction. But then Dean’s lifting off and moving down and there’s Dean’s tongue dragging small little hot licks up the length of Sam’s dick. Sam scrambles up onto his elbows because he absolutely refuses to miss the sight of Dean with a dick in his mouth.

Dean catches him at it and quirks a knowing eyebrow at him while at the same time opening up and sinking on. Sam groans out a pained sound because this isn’t fair, the sight and feel of Dean overwhelming Sam’s senses. He flops back because it is too much. And for a bit it’s just the incredible feeling of warmth and suction on his cock and soft wet smacking sounds with the occasional dirty slurp. When Sam starts pulsing up into Dean’s mouth and gripping the bedspread, Dean pulls off.

“Dean,” Sam says, sounding like he’s begging even though that’s not his intent. Or maybe it is. “Come up here I want to…” he doesn’t follow it up with anything because he doesn’t really know what he wants specifically. Anything, everything. But he wants Dean on him and that means coming up.

Dean does, climbs up and on and straddles him once more, hardon dangling to brush softly against Sam’s.

“Fuck me,” Dean says, once again short-circuiting Sam’s brain. 

“I, uh,” Sam says.

“I mean, like this,” Dean says. “I’ll do it from here. I just need…”

Sam swallows. “Need me to prep you?” he guesses. Dean nods, and Sam knows,  _ knows _ , without asking that Dean hasn’t done this before. But some part of him — the part that wants to avoid hurting his brother, or maybe a darker part that wants to stamp Dean, stake him and take any firsts he has left — needs to hear this. “Have you? Have you done this before?”

Dean shakes his head, but there’s no shame or embarrassment in it. “I’ve got stuff. Hold on.”

He’s gone and back in such a short time, Sam thinks Dean must have kept the lube somewhere handy, which smacks of forward planning. But Sam can’t really entertain that thought to any conclusion because Dean’s pressing the bottle into his hand and nosing into Sam’s neck in something somewhere between and nuzzle and a kiss. It says something about Dean’s comfort here because Sam has (shamefully) spied on Dean before, albeit long ago, and he’s not like this. He’s cool and sexy and in control. But this is warm and needy and for all that Dean is on top, Sam feels so powerful right now.

So he liberally lubes his fingers and kisses Dean’s temple, his ear, whatever he can reach until Dean moves up to get his mouth where it needs to be, and Sam slips his fingers down Dean’s cleft. He goes slow, massaging and only dipping in gently and periodically while they kiss and neck. Dean is tense at first but softens and opens to him gradually. Sam can’t press very deep from this angle but he can eventually work in three fingers to the second knuckle. He urges Dean up further so he can press in harder, and by then Dean is pulsing to it. For a while Dean’s erection had flagged but it’s starting to fatten and lengthen again. He gets to look down for a bit, watching Dean’s dick slowly shift, stilling his fingers in Dean’s ass but keeping a gentle stroke with his thumb on Dean’s ass cheek. He marvels that he gets to see Dean in such a vulnerable state. 

Dean decides when he’s ready by simply lifting away and grabbing the lube.

“You been tested?” he says and Sam nods. “So’ve I. We good to…?” Sam waits a beat, then nods again. So Dean slicks up Sam’s dick before guiding it to his entrance. 

“God, Dean,” Sam says. “We don’t have to.” It pains him to say but this is Dean’s first time so Sam will give him all the outs he can.

“Shut up,” Dean says, brow furrowing. “Learn how to stop overthinking, would you?” And rubs the tip of Sam’s dick across his hole a few times before bearing down. Sam thinks it just isn’t going to happen for a long moment as Dean bites his lower lip in concentration and it’s nothing but resistance. And Sam can’t do this, can’t force Dean, so he’s about to abort the whole thing when suddenly his crown pops in and they both gasp. Dean’s eyes go wide and Sam can see the shock morph into acceptance as he looks down at Sam. 

“Holy shit, Sammy. A bit, uh.”

“Sorry,” Sam says, and Dean laughs in a strange sort of breathless mocking chuckle.

“Deflate your ego, you’re not that large.” But the flicker of a wince betrays the difficulty and Sam can only sit and wait it out, which is for the best really because he could probably blow his load embarrassingly quickly. Dean takes a couple of deep breaths during which both of them calm down, and then starts to sink and it’s  _ amazing _ , tight and slick. It’s not anything Sam hasn’t physically felt before but he’s got  _ Dean _ above him, Dean’s hips in his hands, Dean’s hands on his chest. 

“Fuck, come here,” Sam says, fingers scrabbling at Dean’s shoulders because as great as it is seeing Dean’s face as he takes Sam’s dick up inside him, he actually wants more closeness.

Dean draws his fingers up Sam’s arms and grasps his hands, lacing their fingers together. Sam rests his elbows on the bed as Dean comes forward and presses their lips together, soft and sucking but mostly chaste. Dean starts a sinuous roll because of course even though he’s never done this he’s got control and strength and grace. Sam tries to encourage him by squeezing their fingers together and pulsing their hands in time to Dean’s pace, and by pressing kisses to Dean’s mouth, his chin, his jaw, his neck.

“That good, Sam?” Dean asks as he lifts his hips and presses back down, drawing a moan from somewhere deep in Sam’s chest.

“Deflate  _ your _ ego, jerk,” Sam says, but it’s breathless and another moan immediately follows it. Dean quirks a cocky smile and Sam won’t admit it but Dean absolutely deserves it in this moment.

“You gonna come in me?” Dean asks after he’s worked up a rhythm of rolls and lifts that’s steadily worked them up to helpless gasps and barely voiced grunts.

“D’you want me to?” Sam asks, thinking that in no time at all the question will be academic.

“Rubbed a few out imagining your come dripping out of me,” Dean replies.

And that pretty much punches Sam’s orgasm out of him, stomach flexing and head arching back and dick twitching out all the tension and uncertainty Sam’s been holding in. He grinds in deep and thrusts straight up into his brother, like the flick of a match on a salt and burn, one small movement to kick off the finish.

He shivers out the last of it and it’s probably only a few moments but who can tell when you’ve just shot your consciousness out your dick? So when he comes to, Dean is still sitting on him and brushing his lips up Sam’s clavicle.

“Goddamn,” Sam says blearily.

“Good,” is all Dean says with his forehead resting in the cradle of Sam’s neck.

“You want… should I use my mouth?” Sam asks but it’s not the right words because it sounds like he’s offering a charity but he wants to… he  _ wants.  _ He would take care of Dean in any way it’s in his power to do right now. And although it’s probably true at any given time in their lives, it’s kind of scary that right in this moment Dean could probably ask anything at all of Sam and he’d say yes.

Dean grabs Sam’s hand and presses it to his dick, wrapping his hand around and covering it with his own. He’s hard, which Sam gets a sudden surge of guilt over not noticing in the past however long. Dean thrusts up into Sam’s hand and rests his forehead in the curve between Sam’s shoulder and neck.

“Just.” Dean starts guiding Sam’s hand into a strong, steady stroke and presses his ear to Sam’s mouth, so Sam takes the hint and starts tonguing and kissing it, drawing a relieved and happy sigh from Dean. Sam’s happy to comply, sucking on Dean’s earlobe and exploring the dips and curves around and below Dean’s ear with his tongue. The little vocalizations Dean makes are immensely satisfying, and Dean is guiding Sam’s hand enough that Sam doesn’t even have to think very much about how he’s doing it. It’s great, actually, Dean essentially using Sam’s hand to masturbate with, and Sam kind of sinks into a strange sort of nostalgia fulfillment of him listening to Dean jack it in the dead of night, but this time getting to participate.

When Dean winds up to a tension that feels like it could break them both, Sam is practically ready to go again. 

“Let it go, come on,” Sam breathes into Dean’s ear. “Come on me.”

Dean groans and stills, wound taut as a crossbow, then bursts forth with hard spurts all over Sam’s belly and their entwined hands.

Dean eases his weight down onto Sam and they lay like that for long minutes, just breathing on each other. Eventually Sam gets curious enough to spider his fingertips across Dean’s ass and into his crease, seeking the wetness he knows is there.

Dean huffs a small laugh into Sam’s shoulder.

“Kinky bitch,” he says.

“You’re the one who spanked one out to it,” Sam replies, and both of them are far too soft-edged to really banter like they’re trying to. His fingers find what they’re looking for and the two of them shudder out breaths that neither of them comment on. He dips his fingertip inside and swirls in the mess around the outside, and Dean shivers.

“You okay?” he asks, and he's not really sure if he's asking about Dean's ass or something more general.

“Yeah,” Dean says, and with no evidence at all, Sam thinks Dean is answering both questions at once. “You?”

Sam breathes in a deep, clarifying breath and waits to answer. Dean might still throw the walls up and stubbornly suffer his guilt alone. And Sam really doesn’t want that to be the way it is but he has no idea how to make Dean be okay with this. Right now in this moment Dean feels like comfort and warmth and family. And the sulks aren’t anything new, they happened before all this anyway. Now, in the hazy soft-focus post-orgasmic glow, Sam can’t bring himself to mind, and in any case is honest enough with himself to know that he’ll take whatever Dean can give.

“Yeah,” he says finally, unable and uninterested in keeping his smile from his voice. “I’m good.”

***End***

  
  



End file.
